The rattle of wheels and the trampling of the crowds about her were deafening, and it was fortunate, for, in the confused uproar, the cry which escaped the tortured heart of the proud lady in the coroneted carriage died away unheard. Lilacs and roses--why do you send forth so intoxicating a fragrance, why do you still bloom? Can you have the heart to smile at a world in which there is such anguish? But lilacs, roses, and a beautiful May-sun laughed on, the world was devoutly preparing for the great pilgrimage to Oberammergau. She only was exiled, and returned to her stone palace, alone, hopeless--with infinite desolation in her heart.
A note from the duke awaited her. He took his leave for a few weeks, in order to give her time to understand her own heart clearly. Now she was utterly alone.
[CHAPTER XXXVII.]
THE MEASURE IS FULL
From that day the countess showed an unwonted degree of interest in the newspapers. The first question when she waked in the morning was for the papers. But the maid noticed that she opened only the pages containing the reports from Oberammergau.
"Your Highness seems to be very much interested in the Passion Play," the woman ventured to remark.
The countess blushed, and her "yes" was so curt and repellent that the maid was alarmed at her own presumption.
One thing, however, was certain--her mistress, after reading these reports, always looked pale and worn.
And in truth the unhappy woman, while reading the descriptions of this year's performances, felt as if she were drinking a cup of wormwood drop by drop. Freyer's name was echoing throughout the world. Not only did the daily press occupy itself with him--but grave men, æsthetes of high rank, found his acting so interesting that they wrote pamphlets about it and made it the subject of scientific treatises. The countess read them all. Freyer was described as the type in which art, nature, and religion joined hands in the utmost harmony! "As he himself stands above the laws of theatrical routine, he raises us far above what we term stage effect, as it were into a loftier sphere. He does not act--he is the Christ! The power of his glance, the spirituality of the whole figure, and an indefinable spell of the noblest sorrow which pervades his whole person, are things which cannot be counterfeited, which are no play, but truth. We believe what he says, because we feel that this man's soul does not belong to this world, that its own individual life has entered into his part. Because he thinks, feels, and lives not as Joseph Freyer, but as the Christus--is the source of the impression which borders upon the supernatural."
Madeleine von Wildenau had just read these words, which cut her to the heart. Ah, when strangers--critics--men said such things--surely she had no cause to be ashamed. Who would reproach her, a weak, enthusiastic woman, for yielding to this spell? Surely no one--rather she would be blamed for not having arrested the charm, for having, with a profane hand, destroyed the marvel that approached her, favoring her above the thousands who gazed at it in devout reverence!